The Angel Algy

The Angel Algy

I met the angel Algy in the first year of his gap century. I’d popped in to the Red Lion for a soothing pint after a hard day at the sausage factory and I could sense at once that something supernatural was afoot. As I approached the bar, the angel was pointing at a bottle on the top shelf. “The blue one,” he said, “what does that do?”

“It doesn’t do anything,” said Mary the barmaid wearily. “It’s Curaçao. It tastes of oranges.”

“Ah, oranges, I see,” nodded the angel. “And what do oranges taste of?”

Although Mary was used to dealing with all kinds of customers in all states of inebriation I could see that she was at the end of her tether with this one. I took pity on her. I thought quickly: what would an angel like? Certainly not a pint of anything, I didn’t want an interminable conversation about the appeal of drinks that tasted of rotting vegetable matter. Something sweet and sticky would do.

“A pint of the usual for me and a Baileys for my friend,“ I said.

Mary gave me a look that said I should choose my friends more carefully, or at least supervise them more closely, and went off to draw my pint.

The angel turned and beamed in my direction. “I thought this was a drug shop,” he said. “The shopkeeper says none of the drinks do anything.”

I put my finger to my lips and the angel, perhaps thinking this was an Earth greeting, did the same. “It’s all the same drug, just different flavourings,” I said. “Oh, and we don’t use the word ‘drug’ when we’re talking about alcohol. Don’t try to understand it, it’s a human thing. And we call this a pub, not a drug shop.”

Mary returned with our drinks. The angel looked at my glass, then at his. He sniffed his Baileys, took a sip, then downed it. “Very nice,” he said, smacking his lips. “I’d like some more of that, if you please. He eyed my glass again. “In a bigger cup, perhaps?”

Mary looked at me; I shrugged. After discussion with the landlord and some fiddling about with measuring apparatus she returned with a large whisky tumbler full of Baileys. The angel was about to say something, then thought better of it.

“That will be twenty pounds,” said Mary.

“Will it?” said the angel curiously. He lifted the glass and weighed it in his hand. “When?”

I sighed, opened my wallet and handed Mary two ten pound notes. She put them in the till and bustled off to tend to another customer without looking again in our direction.

I grabbed the glass of Baileys before the angel could down it in one, angels can get into quite enough trouble when sober, and sat down at a table as far as possible from the bar. The angel followed me and sat down too. I put his drink in front of him. “Sip it slowly,” I said, “it’s stronger than it looks. I mean, it contains more drugs than it seems to,” I corrected myself hastily, thinking of several ways my original statement could be misinterpreted. Angels take things so literally and I didn’t want him arm-wrestling his drink.

I gulped my first few mouthfuls of Spatchcock, I really needed it, then put the glass down and watched the angel from the corner of my eye as he dipped a finger in his Baileys and sucked it thoughtfully. He was just a youngster, couldn’t be more than nine hundred years old, a thousand tops. What was his flight commander thinking, letting him come here unsupervised? Earth is a dangerous place for the innocent.

I know just what you’re thinking. How come, with ten human lifetimes of experience to draw on, he’s such a dork? How can I explain? Imagine you decided to spend the day as an ant. Everybody else in the colony is scurrying purposefully about, but what are you supposed to do? While you’re wondering where the supervisor’s office is and whether you qualify for a desk job, a soldier ant marches up and bites your head off. A fat lot of good all your ant-lifetimes of experience will do you. Even if you’re a leading expert in insect colonies, you only know them from a human point of view, not an ant’s. Don’t be too hard on the angel: for his first day in the termite mound he’s doing pretty well.

“You’re one of us, aren’t you?” the angel said abruptly. “They said I’d probably run into you. They said you’d gone native.”

“Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake.” The pub had no more than a dozen customers this early on a Tuesday evening and the angel’s voice was all too audible. He slipped from his seat and put his head to the floor. “I mean, speak more quietly, people will hear you, and get up off the floor before Mary has us thrown out.” I looked nervously towards the bar but Mary was pointedly ignoring us. Life becomes so full of adverbs at times like this.

“Why shouldn’t they hear me?” he said in surprise as he resumed his seat. “I thought they liked angels here?”

“They like their angels white with wings and a halo, preferably a bit translucent, not solid, human and drinking in their local.”

“Oh.” He looked confused. “What kind of angels are those?”

“Imaginary ones. Humans imagine how they’d like the world to be, then pretend as hard as they can that it really is like that. If they can find enough people to pretend with them, their case is proven. They have little use for facts, and the few of them that do take an interest in how the world really works are seen as spoiling the game for everybody else. Everywhere you go you’ll meet people who believe in homeopathy, moon gardening, religion, law, and any other rubbish they’ve dreamed up.” I spoke bitterly: my thirty years on Earth had taken its toll.

“I’m ___,” the angel said, extending a hand. He looked surprised and tried again. “___”

“You can’t make angel sounds with human vocal equipment,” I explained wearily, “just wait until you hear them trying to sing. You’ll have to give yourself an Earth name.” I could see he hadn’t got a clue. When I'd bought my current house I'd discovered some children’s picture books in the shed, left there by the previous owners. The angel didn't seem much like a Rupert and I couldn’t see anything good coming from his introducing himself as Constable Growler or Pong Ping. “What about Algy?” I suggested.

He tried it out. “Algy.” He looked delighted. “Good evening, pleased to meet you, my name is Algy. I admire its human earthiness and hope you will too. May I have the honour of this dance?”

I ignored him. The Baileys was having its effect and I had to work out how to get him out of the pub before he caused any trouble. The amount he’d drunk would be nothing to an addict, it would barely take the edge off the shakes, but for somebody unaccustomed to Earth drugs he’d already had quite enough. I’d wondered how the alcohol would take him and now I had my answer: it made him silly. It’s never wise to drink on an empty head.

“Have you tried Earth food yet, Algy? It’s an interesting experience. You have to eat several times a day while you’re human, otherwise you stop going.”

“I’m going to eat a pig,” announced Algy. “I’ve seen pictures and I’ve always wanted to try one. Can we eat pigs?”

“Whatever you like, Algy, just speak more quietly. We have to go somewhere else for food.” I finished the last of my pint and, before I could stop him, Algy did the same with the remaining half of his Baileys.

“I want to punch somebody,” said Algy in a stage whisper. “The one with doodles on his arms. He keeps looking at me. We could punch our way out through the window.”

I hustled him towards the door. This would be an interesting evening.